The Force of an Unsound Mind
by Tw1st
Summary: An eccentric soldier, searching for the truth of her lost identity. A distrustful Republic pilot, seeking revenge on the man that destroyed his life. Intent on finding the fabled Jedi, Bastila Shan, and going their separate ways; neither one of them are aware of a much more powerful force, pulling on the strings of destiny. The same characters that we love. A tale unlike the game.


**The Force of an Unsound Mind**

* * *

**A/N:** A story written based on my favorite video game, KOTOR I. An adaptation of the storyline, inspired by shows and movies like "Living with Yourself" and "Joker".

I have always imagined that the Jedi underestimated the power of Revan's mind, much like the Sith Emperor underestimated the strength of Revan and Malak's wills. That said, this story delves into the possibility that Revan does _not_ buy into her false identity, and that her awareness of having false memories coupled with not knowing _who_ she really is has made her a bit… '_eccentric'_.

As for Carth Onasi, I found that there are _so many_ hints throughout the game that he is Force-sensitive, but it is a plot that the game never truly expanded upon. I will be diving into that much more deeply in this story and using that narrative as a large piece to his story; past, present, and future.

My intention is to keep Carth as OC as possible. Revan (AKA "True Baill") will be, perhaps, unlike you've ever seen her before.

* * *

**Preface**

* * *

**3957 BBY**

**T**he memories did not belong to her.

But there were _many_.

Images and visions flooded, as her spirit slowly woke, like the cold gray light of dawn on an unsuspecting night. It was overwhelming, the suddenness. Faces she didn't recognize, places she'd never seen, conversation's she'd never had; all forcing their way into the forefront of her mind, demanding regard. Then, once her head was brimming with unfamiliar recollections, a torrent of emotions trailed… and, well, that was when the _real_ fun began.

Joy, resentment, lust, thrill, pain, bliss, misery, pleasure, jealousy, sympathy, revenge, love, hate, fear, passion…

_There is no emotion. There is peace. _This mantra, unbidden, shattered across her mental state like a plasma bolt through a glass of ale.

_Well, that's just stupid,_ she mused bitterly, inner monologue rolling. Clearly there _was_ emotion; a great deal of them, in fact. And it didn't matter how one might characterize it—an overabundance of feelings, a deluge of sentiments, a metric _fuckton_ of emotions—for no amount of 'peace' was going to reduce the massive swell of cognitive activity now barreling around within the confines of her tired mind.

Still, it was a nice sentiment; if not a touch naïve.

While she waited, allowing each individual emotion to run its course, a faint blueish light began to press against her closed eyes. This signaled the gradual resurfacing of her conscious and—if slowly—her power to reason. Then, one by one, her physical senses returned to gently ease her back to life.

_Where am I?_ This was the first rational inquiry that sprung forward, and she clung to it like a raft in the sea.

She was laying, limp as a doll, somewhere safe. A cool touch of air fluttered across the damp beads of sweat at her temple. There was no wind, nor any evidence of harsh elements, and there was no indication of natural sun or moon light. She was inside; a room, most likely, for her breath did not come with dust or humidity, as was typical in the air of a cave.

Then, the scent of a liberally sanitized room, coupled with the recognition of a taut pillowcase beneath her cheek, indicated that she was somewhere _medical_. This was further confirmed as the sounds of machines—whirring, beeping, bubbling—suggested that she was in the process of being healed. But for what injuries?

Determined to accept whatever horrifying state her body may be in, she gradually began the slow process of taking stock of the damage. There were numerous cuts, gashes, bruises, and at least one fractured bone throughout her frame. Despite these injuries, however, she could still feel the steady beat of her heart, strong and rhythmic, caged within her chest. Along that same lifeline were several other positive discoveries; she could still wiggle her toes, stretch her fingers, and flex the cheeks of her buttocks… which, to her, was a great relief.

_Not too bad._ What else could she make of her surroundings?

Reaching further, she heard the low murmur of two voices, interacting on the far side of the room. She managed to catch the words "terrible accident" and "traumatic brain injury" and "potentially volatile" before a sudden, rolling wave of illness took hold. Wholly awake now—feeling dizzy and violently sick—she resolutely decided that she preferred the unconscious state she'd been in before.

"Shit," she sputtered feebly, still unwilling to greet her surroundings with opened eyes. Her hands groped blindly for the edge of the bed, catching thin sheets between her fingers as a nauseating tension seized her innards.

The conversating voices fell silent and there was a startled clamber of movement. A man's alarmed voice exclaimed something in Basic, followed by the head-splitting _click-click-click_ of short heeled shoes traveling across a polished floor.

At long last, she opened her eyes to see the blurred outline of two shiny black boots, firmly planted below a receptacle that had been offered forth; presumably for the collection of whatever prize her stomach had to deliver. She took a long, quivering breath and clamped her lips together, fighting for control. The large medical room was bright –arguable _too_ bright—and spinning without logic; though, she reasoned, the _spinning_ was likely of her own manifestation, rather than a flaw in architectural design.

When at last the ill feeling had subsided, and her innards had found safe anchor, she waved the receptacle away, confident that the overwhelming revulsion had passed.

With shaky arms and a throbbing core, she pushed herself up into a seated position. She blinked her eyes—maybe fifty times—until the hazy cloud lifted away. Slowly, and with great caution, she turned to acknowledge the person that belonged to the sheeny boots; suspicious that whomever she was about to meet may very likely be involved in her identity ruse.

A Mirialan man stood alongside the bed, clad in a stark white uniform, adorning the appropriate 'medical' apparatus that one might presume to discover on a doctor. The forest-green shade of his skin contrasted nicely against his attire, and his dazed expression suggested that he was _surprised_ to see his patient awake.

"Easy, now," the doctor soothed, reaching a hesitant hand forward that didn't _quite_ make contact. "Do you know where you are?"

_Medbay. _ Of course, anyone with a working pair of eyes could have told him that, and she knew that he was searching for an answer much less vague.

"I"—she rocked forward a bit, gazing meditatively down upon the doctor's boots as a second wave of vertigo rushed forward—"don't."

A cup of water, seeming to appear out of thin air, was suddenly thrust into her line of sight. She accepted it, clasping the drink securely between the palms of her hands, and watched as small ripples worked their way from center to rim in reaction to her trembling hold.

After a gracious moment, the doctor tried again. "Do you have any family that I should contact?"

_Dead. _That, surprisingly, came fast and felt true. Whatever family she had—_legitimately_ had—was long gone.

"Ah… no." She said flatly, mouth dry. She took a restorative gulp of water, balancing the cup awkwardly against her quivering lower lip, and coughed.

A bout of silence filled the air. In it, she discovered that the Mirialan was regarding her rather cautiously, the feeling of his wary gaze hot against her cheek. When her eyes flicked up to meet with his she noted the slight jerk of his head and the choked gasp in his throat; a reaction that suggested the anticipation of a wild outburst.

She wondered, briefly, if she and the doctor had shared a history. One that might be hidden beneath the false memories now clouding her mind…

"Do you recall any details of the," the Mirialan paused, pulling a face that suggested heavy contemplation on his next word, "accident?"

_The explosion. _

She must have blanched, for the doctor reached cautiously for the receptacle. She divided an irritated glare between him and the container and shook her head, inaudibly assuring him that she was fine.

"Maybe, some." She said softly, recalling the event as best as she could.

Her most recent memory, or—rather—the most recent memory that she had been _given_, was short and straightforward; there had been a powerful surge of electricity, a piercing bright light, and a resulting shockwave of energy that had thrown her high into the air. A surge of pain. A gasping scream. A surrender to darkness.

What had caused the explosion? She didn't know, but something intrusive was _insisting_ that it had been a mechanical accident. Nothing more, nothing less.

The doctor took a step forward, expression suddenly abstracted, and he motioned as though he were about to make a connection of some medical point. "It is normal for a person to experience disorientation and memory loss after an event like tha—"

"I _don't_ have memory loss." Her voice was sharp with agitation; it rang loudly in the med bay, echoing among the empty beds and shiny, silver walls. "I _have_ memories. They just aren't…" she trailed, instantly regretting her outburst.

His blue eyes narrowed above a seamless geometric patterned cheek tattoo, the shape of which stretched over and across the bridge of his green nose. After a moment's hesitation and a brief nod, he reached deep into the pocket of his white coat and withdrew a datapad. The device glowed to life at his touch and he tapped the tips of his fingers against the surface in a practiced rhythm. "Your records show that you are a Republic soldier. You enlisted twelve years ago?"

_That's not me_, was her initial reaction, but she suppressed it.

Displaying something akin to compassion—pity, she supposed—the doctor tilted the electronic device forward.

Balancing the datapad between her free hand and the cup of water, she stared down at the headshot image of a woman; light colored hair, dark shaded brows, high cheekbones, thin lips. The woman in the image appeared to be in her late thirties, seasoned by war and battles, but still vibrant in the eyes.

_Is this what I look like?_ Adjusting her gaze to stare with consternation at the dark corner of the datapad, she viewed a dim reflection of herself in the surface of the device; and, to no surprise, it was very alike to the photo at the center of the pad. Above the picture there was a name, formal in type and then written below in orderly handwriting, similar to the paired print and signature on a legal document.

"True Baill," she read aloud, trying the name out.

A few thumb swipes across the datapad's bright screen contradicted everything that she had been doubting. Displayed plainly in Basic lettering, she scanned through the highlights of her life story; the name of her home world, the names of her parents, the dates of their deaths, her enlistment into the Republic Military, her rank as a soldier, the assignments she had taken, the ships she had traveled on, the languages she understood, her age, her height, her weight…

_Right. _

This _was_ her. But had she been this person—this _True Baill_—for thirty-seven years or… closer to thirty-seven _minutes_?

Regardless, this was not the place, nor the time, to be questioning the validity of her reality. And, if she were to further challenge this identity, she expected that her new doctor friend would jump head-first at the opportunity to reach for his commlink and cry for some form of aided backup—like a straitjacket, she presumed.

After a span, she lowered the datapad and peered dubiously up at the Mirialan. Feigning confidence, she confirmed in a rather dreamy tone, "yes, this is me."

The doctor said nothing, but his unease was... well, _obvious_, to say the least.

For the third time that day, she felt quite faint, and a great deal more light-headed than ever before. She imagined that her face was now as white as the doctor's uniform and that her countenance must have been betraying the inner workings of her mind. The doctor—once again—offered her the receptacle… and she resisted the very strong urge to snatch the container from him and slam it over the top of his head.

She opened her mouth, intent on firing off a quick quip, when a sound at the edge of the room drew her attention. She barely caught sight of a flash of robes, brown and tan in color, as they disappeared beyond the doorway; but by the time she had realized that a third person had been viewing their private exchange it was far too late to act. The stranger had fled through the exit, resolved to never return, leaving nothing but a foreboding sense in their mysterious wake.

Now, more than ever, she was _certain_ that the memories did not belong to her.

And, with that, True Baill doubled over and retched directly onto the doctor's shiny boots.

* * *

**3956 BBY**

"Now, that's odd," the starship captain mumbled lowly, knitting his brows together in an outward display of confusion.

Preceding this whispered outburst—which was directed more-so to himself rather than to the starboard crew members around him—the captain had been making his final rounds within the narrow bridge, accompanied by the youngest crewman of the _Endar Spire_, Finnic Rell. They had been confirming and reviewing the more standard procedures before the ship's initial takeoff into space; checking the electronic signals, correcting a few minor miscalculations in the navigational route, and generally discussing each component and system that controlled the Hammerhead-class war cruiser.

Amid the mandatory inspection—of which, at this point, he could have done in his sleep—the toll of three high pitched beeps sounded off at the captain's left hip. Initially, he had intended to brush the alert aside, contented with his decision to wait until his examinations were complete. But a nagging, _persistent_ feeling kept urging him to look _now_; and, before he could make sense of his actions, the captain had lifted the datapad up to discover an alarming alert displayed across the front of its screen. The picture of a woman, fair skinned and thin, took over the majority of the page, situated below two boldly lettered words: **NEW TRANSFER**.

A cold chill swept over, created by an apprehensive knot that twisted at the pit of his spine.

Drawing the pad closer to his face, assuredly casting strange shadows beneath his sunken eyes and wide arc at the base of his nose, the captain perused the page intensely. He ran his finger slowly down the screen, reading over each section within the electronic document, one by one. The information all read relatively normal and bland, as service records tended to do, stating the normal facts and details for an enlisted soldier in the Republic military; the names of their family members, lists of their prior assigned ships and stations, a few personal identifying traits, specific dates of service…

_Wait._

"Sir?" A voice broke in around his thoughts.

The captain jerked slightly, tearing his eyes away from the datapad's bright screen to discover Finnic Rell staring back at him, openly puzzled.

The rest of the operation's crew, standing in line aboard the _Endar Spire's_ bridge, all pretended to have the slightest idea about that which their captain was commenting. Junior Officer Rell was the newest and youngest soldier, having only been assigned to two warships prior to the_ 'Spire_, and thus was expected _not_ to understand much about the goings-on within the bridge… or, at least, not as well as the more veteran officers among the squad_. _And the crewmen, as was tradition, whole-heartedly intended to maintain this ancient façade.

Traditions be damned, the captain always took pity on the younger soldiers beneath his command. He could still recall the days of his own youth, back when he himself had been a young, impressionable officer; eager to be accepted, yet too inexperienced to be respected.

"Nothing—no, _you_ are doing great." The captain assured, seeking to ease the junior officer's blatant unease.

The captain then minimized the screen of his personal datapad and tucked it safely away at his side, unable to shake the unsettling image of the woman—and her active dates of service—from the corners his mind.

Finnic visibly relaxed, his clenched fingers loosening to reveal a set of stress-bitten nails, and his dark eyes brightened beneath a pair of dark, bushy brows. "Shall we continue, then?"

The captain opened his mouth to respond… but a tingling, warm sensation at the back of his neck stunned him into silence.

_They're here. _He knew this, without having any logical reason to _truly_ know this.

Turning on his heel, as though against his own will, the captain squared his shoulders and rooted his feet, preparing himself for their impending entry. He was unsurprised by the soft _whir_ of the bridge doors as they flew open, large steel panels separating at the center and disappearing into the surrounding silver walls, revealing three robe-clad visitors.

The Jedi crossed over the threshold and the bridge fell silent, save for the occasional cadenced beep from the warship's blinking row of navigational modules. A wave of excited and anxious energy wound its way throughout the room, surging passionately from each officer as they stood in a formal line, shoulder to shoulder at the center of the aisle.

These Jedi had been expected, of course, but the presence of the renowned Force wielding heroes—Gods in their own right, he'd often heard people say—never failed to incite the feeling of marvel within the average man. The Jedi all seemed to float as they moved, holding themselves like the highest of royalty, billowing an energy that could draw even the dullest of souls toward their radiance. One Jedi, in particular, was even more ethereal than others; the woman in charge of this entire operation, Bastila Shan.

It was impossible to deny that she was very enchanting, with her milky skin, rounded lips, and dark, intricately twisted hair. The tight clothing that she wore beneath her robe, very dissimilar to the typical loose-fitting pants and large tunics of her comrades, left little to the imagination when concerning the curves of her body. Her bright gray eyes were clear and attentive with a youthful type of excitement, but the way in which she held herself required a second look to determine her approximate age. Overall, she reminded the captain of a typical young person—which, she _was_—searching for herself by means of self-expression and leadership.

That aside, Bastila was unimaginably powerful with the Force; and her gift of battle meditation had turned the tide in many conflicts, including the legendary defeat of Revan, making her quite an impressive weapon.

A very _pretty_ weapon, as it were.

The captain watched with growing impress as Bastila made her rounds about the bridge, making her way slowly down the line of Republic soldiers to approach each officer in turn, introducing herself and allowing them to do the same, all while offering them her gratitude and affection. Regardless of whether she had come to this performance on her own accord, or if she had been strictly instructed on how to behave by the Jedi Council, the captain was damned glad of it; for nothing could rouse a troop of soldiers quite like the acknowledgement of their starship's commanding officer.

As she drew closer, Finnic made an odd sort of sound at the captain's side, drawing his attention.

Glancing at the junior officer out of the corner of his eye, the captain was at once amused. The look upon the young soldier's face, as he ardently fixated on Bastila, was both comical and _sad_; slack-jawed, stiff as a stone, with eyes the size of saucers.

_Kid, you haven't got a chance._ The captain snorted slightly, reaching his hand out and gently popping Finnic's gaping jaw back into place before the Jedi of his yearnings stood before them.

As she had with every other soldier, Bastila introduced herself to the junior officer, smiling prettily. Finnic flushed incredibly, throat bulging as he audibly gulped, and his eyes dipped away. The Jedi seemed unperturbed by the young soldier's clumsy display; for she was either numbingly familiar to this kind of reaction, or far too pure to notice.

Seeking to dissipate Finnic's palpable agony, the captain mercifully reached his hand out.

"Carth Onasi," he said curtly, meeting her eyes.

He hadn't expected her to remember him. Carth and Bastila had only ever exchanged a smattering of pleasantries, none of which were necessarily noteworthy, and it had been over a year since their last encounter.

"Yes, of course. I remember you." Said Bastila genuinely, grasping his hand. Her soft accent was smooth and pleasant on the ears. "Thank you for being here, Captain."

Carth smiled, uncertain of its affect.

His years spent serving in the Republic military hadn't exactly been as _romantic_ or _wonderful_ as he might have once hoped. He had spent a majority of his life fighting for the Republic, losing more than he cared to admit in the process, including—but not limited to—witnessing the destruction of his home world and being betrayed by a person of whom Carth had once held in the highest regard. Eventually, he became broken and bitter, spending many nights lying awake, alone, considering death to be the only _pleasant_ option left in the universe. But somewhere, among the deluge of his life, Carth had uncovered the will to continue living; and he promised himself that he would seek out an opportunity to take revenge on the man who had betrayed him.

The _Endar Spire_ and her crew were the exact opportunity that Carth had been pursuing, along with the vessel's assignment to aid in the on-going war effort against Darth Malak and the Sith Empire's invading fleets.

Truly, there wasn't anywhere else he'd _rather_ be.

"It's my pleasure, Commander Shan."

Bastila looked a touch nervous, acting as if being referred to as a 'commander' had ultimately confirmed that she was—in fact—heading this mission. Plainly, _someone_ had been schooling her in the appropriate behavior for a new commanding officer, but the uncertain look in the deep recesses of her eyes betrayed her newness to the job.

And Carth knew, in that moment, that she was truly afraid.

Managing to regain her composure quickly, as Jedi tended to do, Bastila gestured with an open palm towards the two Force users that flanked her sides. "Allow me to introduce Jayna Orant"—she paused as Carth shook Jayna's hand, then continued on once he'd begun to reach towards the other Jedi—"and Kass Vaal."

Once pleasantries were out of the way, and everyone had been formally introduced, the _Endar Spire's _commander and captain fell in line together, trailed by Finnic and the other two Jedi. Carth began the customary tour, motioning around the bridge as he spoke, explaining the most direct mechanisms and apparatus of the vessel, and keeping their journey around the ship's inner workings as brief—yet informative—as possible.

"… I've almost completed the final inspection, and then the '_Spire_ will be ready for departure." He finished, turning to face Bastila.

"Excellent work, Carth." She said, affably. "Please, do not hesitate to let me know if there is anything that I can do to assist you."

Assist in? No. Clear up? Perhaps.

A ripple of curiosity passed through him. He _wanted_ to ask her about the last-minute addition to the crew. Perhaps, it wasn't too late to persuade her that this transfer had been… unwise?

Carth narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, rubbing his chin with one hand as he contemplated the power of his influence. Ultimately, he decided against any discussion on the matter, presuming his concerns may fall on deaf ears. "Nothing that comes immediately to mind."

A more natural smile broke out on Bastila's face and Carth suddenly realized how truly _young_ she was.

_Damn near young enough to be my daughter_, he considered, momentarily disquieted by the thought.

Well, if that were the case, then perhaps Bastila might accept a word of advice from him…

"I do have just a—a _comment,_ for the future." Carth amended, noting Bastila's reactive shoulder tension and chin lift; a natural response of youths, when their behavior is brought into question.

She smiled at him; her eyes suspiciously bright. "Yes?"

"If you are going to make a last-minute change to the crew, you might want to choose a soldier who hasn't been _inactive_ for six months." Said Carth, with an expression that he hoped was portraying as courteous. "Look, I personally know every single soldier on this ship; and I trust each of them with my life—_and_ _yours_. All I'm saying is, this mission seems a bit too important to risk adding any _questionable_ individuals to the squad."

The entire bridge seemed to take one large, collective gasp.

Bastila didn't reply for a moment. Instead, she turned towards the large bridge window, halfway, so that only the fine, sharp lines of her profile were visible to him. She stared through the massive starboard window, searching for something along the bay in which the _Endar Spire_ was docked, brandishing a look of unutterable distance on her face.

If he hadn't known any better, Carth would have _sworn_ that Bastila was reliving a faraway memory, caught within some terror of the past.

Eventually, the famous Jedi came back from wherever she had travelled within her mind and glanced sidelong at the perplexed captain. An aloofness still lingered in the corner of her eyes as she spoke. "You've been a pilot for most of your life, Captain?"

This, he knew, was not going to end well. He _had_ been married, after all...

Carth's mouth felt unexpectedly dry and he licked his lips before answering. "Yes. Close to twenty years of experience."

There was a contemplative silence before Bastila continued. "You have been an operating pilot on a Hammerhead-class warship before?"

Despite his viable apprehensions of where their conversation may be heading, Carth's voice remained strong and unfaltering. "Yes, I have."

Bastila turned to fully face him with a much more winsome expression. Carth braced himself for the inevitable verbal blow that would follow. "Then perhaps you should focus on that which you are an expert at—piloting _this_ ship—and leave the authoritative decisions to me and my council."

For a plethora of reasons, Carth had never been one to idolize or adore any of the Jedi. He respected them, _sure_, but they seemed a rather _unattached_ society and he considered that to be a troubling trait. Now, as he stared levelly upon—arguable—one of the most famous Jedi of his lifetime, Carth was reminded of _why _they all seemed so unattached.

Provoked by a mysterious impulse, Carth nodded his head.

"Yes, you are right. We should all stick to what we're proficient at," he said, as reasonably as he could. "You are, after all, an _expert_ commander."

He shouldn't have said that, _really_, he shouldn't have. It was unfair of him to take a jab at Bastila's insecurities—and in such a public setting, no less—but the temptation of enlightening the young Jedi to the fault in her logic was far, _far_ too alluring.

The inhabitants of the bridge were stunned into silence, Jedi and officers alike, barely managing to draw breath amidst the tension in the room.

Carth, admittedly, was more than a little baffled himself. His imagination promptly visualized Bastila reaching out with an invisible force and throwing him through the air—like he had seen Jedi do on numerous occasions during his battles against the Mandalorian armies—leaving him as nothing more than a crumpled mess in the corner.

The edges of Bastila's plump mouth twitched but she said nothing. Instead, she inclined her head coldy in his direction, smirked, and turned sharply on her heel. Not five seconds passed before the three Jedi floated their way towards the exit of the bridge, quiet as a forest's early morning mist, ultimately fading away behind a curve in the _Endar Spire's_ hallway.

It was then apparent to Carth that the addition of the mysterious soldier to the crew-at the very last minute-had been a calculated move. He would be unable to change the Jedi's decision on the matter before they embarked on the journey ahead; and he wasn't going to be getting any answers in the meantime.

_What the hell am I supposed to do about this, now?_

At length, Carth sighed. No matter what he eventually decided to do, he didn't have the time to dwell on this particular issue any longer.

"Officer Rell," the pilot said, turning towards Finnic to regard him with a quirked brow and a wry nod. "Come, let us continue."

The junior officer released a roaring gasp that he had—apparently—been holding captive within his lungs; expression akin to that of a man who might piss himself, right there in the middle of the bridge.


End file.
